


The Last Ballad of Major Tom

by hobbes



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Brainwashing, F/M, Gen, Loss of Control, Series Spoilers, Suspense, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:17:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbes/pseuds/hobbes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3.08 AU. The devil gets his due. Alex and Gene part ways and London wakes to a darkness hanging above like a cloud. The dethroning of a sheriff and the aftermath of his broken kingdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Ballad of Major Tom

**Author's Note:**

> So this is more of a rewrite than anything of my original story, Up the Hill Backwards, which has thus been deleted-the elements cannibalized-and spat out again for your reading pleasure. It's a different approach to writing than I am used to, so hopefully with any luck it'll be entertaining! Ratings may change as the story progresses.
> 
> Spoilers for the finale as well as most of series 3. Consider this more of an AU in the world of "could have happends".

_And I'm floating in a most peculiar way_  
 _And the stars look very different today_  
\- **David Bowie, _Major Tom_**

_**The Last Ballad Of Major Tom** _

Nine o'six. It's always nine o'six and Alex has lost her mind. They're standing there, the three of them on a dark and empty street like it was some sort of Mexican standoff. Maybe it was. This was all Gene's doing. Scarf in hand (Molly's scarf, her baby girl her dearest— _coming home, Molls!_ ) Alex makes a fist. She stares at Jim, and then Gene who looks just…defeated is the first word that comes to mind. He looks defeated.

Like he'd given up. Given up on them. Given up on  _her_.

Alex can't take it anymore. She's got Molly's scarf. And Jim is staring at his broken watch.

9:06 with its frozen hands. Nine o'six. The ringing in her ears quiets.

"Take me to her." She asks. Jim grins.

"Bolly-"

"No, Gene. Take me to her. I want to see her, Jim." She aches. She aches so much. "I want to see my little girl."

Jim's hand is too warm and clammy but she's passed caring. She thinks she is. That doesn't stop her heart from aching—or was it hesitation as she looked back. Gene Hunt, hands in his coat as he watched her go, looking more hurt than she'd ever seen him. No, she realized finally. Not hurt. Not defeated. Betrayed.

"Don't look back, Alex." Jim warns her with a pat on the hand as he leads her down the street. "He's the one that has trapped you here for so long."

Lying in a hospital bed. Waiting to come home.

_Sam Tyler was here for seven years_. And he'd come back. And Gene hadn't killed him but—Christ, seven years is an awfully long time. Alex almost forgets she's been here for three. Made a life for herself. A life without Molly and she'd…she'd almost forgotten. Like Gene, she'd almost forgotten where she'd come from. The hand in her's squeezes lightly as they turn the corner. "You're making the right decision. We're going to get you as far away as possible from him, that's what's best."

"I'm going home."

"Yes, Alex, you are."

Their walk is mostly silent. London's gone dead. Or was it more dead? Is there quiet because of the hour or it is because like Hunt, this world is giving up? She can't make heads or tails of it but it is definitely gotten darker. What time is it, she wants to ask. But then she remembers. Nine o'six. Jim's watch is broken. Frozen in time. Alex dares not breathe another word about it. They're not far, just around the corner. It feels like it's been ages. And yet, they just keep walking and walking and she's left with her thoughts. Rounding two more corners in silence, Alex can't take it anymore. "How long have you been here?"

"Been here? Ages." Jim guides her up a set of steps. "Up you go."

"Where are we?"

"Scotland Yard, Alex. Don't you recognize it?" Alex's brow furrowed. No, she didn't. Not really. Her London was awash with steel and chrome, and it looks foreign. Familiar, but at the same time…out of place. "But we didn't cross the bridge." Jim smiles warmly at her but there is something off about it; he's hiding something. "I've been here a long time, Alex. I don't need a flash car to know how to use shortcuts." Shortcuts are the direct route, they do not get you over bridges without your knowledge. He feels her hesitate and they stop just outside the front door.

"You must be exhausted, Alex. We've just got to make a quick stop at my office, yeah?" Quick stop. Then Molly. Then home. Alex nods solemnly and thanks him as he holds the door open for her. She follows him downwards. Down flights of stairs, down dimly lit corridors. Down into the murk, it feels. They keep him in the basement, he says. Where it's nice and warm. Discipline and Complaints is written in stark, unfriendly letters on the door that leads to a bull pen of neatly arranged desks. There is someone else there, a man who looks up from the Magazine he's reading. "Another one, Jim? Where's this one off to?"

"DI Drake is one of the best. She'll be working directly with me," He winks at her and there is that smile again. Hiding something. "For a little while at least."

The man just shrugs his shoulders and goes back to reading his car mag. "This way, Alex."

D and C is almost a mirror of Fenchurch East passed the front door, Alex learns. Jim's office is at the back and the blinds are drawn but from underneath the door, light. Like they were expected. "Would you like me to take your coat?"

"No."

"Suit yourself."

If the air in D and C was warm then his office is absolutely boiling. Jim seems right at home, pawing through filing cabinets. She keeps hold of Molly's scarf, which is wrapped tight around her knuckles. She's close. On edge. After everything she feels sharp, like it's all coming to a point, which only knots her stomach and makes it flip flop as he takes his sweet time looking for…whatever it is.

"Why did you act like that. Back there."

"Back where?"

"Back in CID when you…" she can't bring herself to say it. After all that Gene had done to them she still couldn't bring herself to say it.

"You had to see him. For what he really was."

"He was trying to help."

"He was  _just playing with you, Alex_!" Jim slaps his folio down hard on his desk, making her jump. "It was sloppy, and careless. This isn't his world, you know. There are other people to consider. Other people who are destined for much more than playing copper day in and day out."

"What?"

"There is more to playing sheriff, Alex. So much more. You understand that, don't you?" He rounds the desk to prop himself in front of her, smiling gently. "Do you understand?"

"I just want to go home, Jim. That's all I want." She's fought not to tear up again, not to cry. His smile is off-putting and the more he does it, the less comforted she feels. He's hiding something. Just like Gene, there is something about Jim that is squared away somewhere, and that niggling voice, the one in the back of her head keeps whispering to her.  _It's all over. Run. Run away. Go back._

Maybe she should go back. Gene looked so hurt. She could ask him again. They're both lost, hurt souls.

"Do you want something? Water?"

"No. I just-"

"You want to go home. I know." Jim holds his hands out, gentle in his urging. "Just give me a little more time, Alex."

Just a little while longer. She's waited so long. What's a little more? Alex shifts in her seat. "A little more. Yes, I would like some water." He leaves her alone. There is a stack of files on Jim's desk, carefully labeled and organized by color. Four red, three brown and a blue one—the one he'd slapped down earlier. Keat's handwriting is small and neat and in the bright, boiling lights of his office Alex reads the names. Bevan, Gardiner, James, Litton…Granger, Skelton, Carling. Drake. Alex in blue, at the top. Her file.

What is he doing with her file?

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Alex startles. Jim is standing against the doorframe holding out a paper cup. "You're a smart girl, Alex, but even you know better than to poke your nose into where it doesn't belong."

"Why did you bring me here?"

"I needed to get something."

"My file, you came to get my file. Why?" He puts the cup in her hands and picks it up, tucking it under one arm. Somewhere he's shed his own coat, and seems smaller. Denser, if that's possible. Standing in his office, he seems stronger. It frightens her a little, and takes a sip. "You're sweating, Alex. Are you sure you don't want to take off your coat?"

"I'm sure. Why do you have my file?"

"It's my job."

"What is your job?" Alex stands up again. The water is warm.

"Discipline and Complaints."

"Your  _real_  job, Jim."

He laughs at her. Like it was a joke, light and jovial and he rubs the back of his neck. Her neck is damp and her hands are clammy. Molly's scarf seems slippery and damp. "Would you like to see?"

She shakes her head. "It's on the way. No more games, Alex. Molly's waiting." He insists. Jim brushes against her elbow as he turns out the light. "Come on, we've got to get to the lifts." More stairs, more silence. Alex is sweating bullets now. Molly's scarf feels like nothing. Nothing helps as she presses it against her forehead. It doesn't even smell like her anymore. Jim's hands are in his pockets, file sill pinioned under one arm.  _Ding_. "See? No more worrying."

"Home." She says.

"It is what we make of it." Jim grins and the elevators doors close. It is then that Alex realizes there is no light in the elevator. "Jim?" she says, fear rising. Molly's scarf is gone. Did she drop it? "I don't…I don't feel so good."

"You should have listened to me and taken your coat off, Alex. Where we're going it can get  _very_  hot."

* * *

Someone is waiting for him in his office.

Gene walks through the doors with a new handle of Scotch. CID is still a mess, a warzone and Alex's desk has been left askew. It should feel like coming home victorious but he bears too many holes. No Viv at the desk yawning as he passed. No Shaz, waiting coat in hand for Chris to finish his paperwork to catch the late film. And Alex's desk is all but destroyed. The plaque resting by his feet.

Alex. If he remembered what it felt like, he would have said that felt like dying all over again. Drake in her coat staring at him like he'd hung the bloody moon for her only to stare back in disgust and fear and upset. Fragile as she held the scarf. Should have stopped him, then. Should have stopped  _her_. That ringing in their ears. Flatline.

Alex's heart stopping and for once Gene had never regretted anyone being stuck with him more than that moment.

All fur coat and no knickers and he loved it. Loved her. He loved her and she walked away into the night with someone else. Only, it was the wrong way. Daffy tart walked straight into the arms of danger and didn't say so much as goodbye.

"Hunt."

He looks up. Superintendent Lambert, a pear shaped man barely tall enough to look Gene in the eye, has his arms folded about his chest and is shaking his head. Ponce git. They could have gone another week at least without a visit from upstairs. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

"You can tell me just what went on in here."

_Kicked in the gut by a weasel-dicked lunatic who ripped the bloody roof off_  he could say. He wouldn't. "We were in a bit of a hurry, Sir. Jewelry blag at the airport."

"Is that a  _typewriter_?" Lambert points to Shaz's wrecked typewriter. "This is unacceptable, Hunt."

"With all due respect, Sir," Gene starts. It was the rubber heeler. All of this was that little shit's doing. Lambert doesn't want to hear it, and holds a hand up to stop him. "You've got two options, Gene. The commissioner has seen fit to offer you one last chance. Transfer, or retirement."

" _What_?"

"Don't tell me you didn't see this coming, Chief Inspector. Your record is hardly pristine. I've got Keats' D and C report on my desk. Half of your department walked out. Where did they go, Gene?"

"Away." A sinking feeling starts in his throat and drifts until it anchors itself in his gut. "They've gone away, sir."

"Fenchurch East will be a laughing stock come morning, I should think. Media's going to have a field day, jewelry blag or not. People hate us enough, how do you think they'd react to finding out we've started shooting each other? Or bloody disappearing coppers? There is a cloud over your head, Gene. You've got a choice. What are you going to do?"

Gene walks into his office and sets the bottle of Scotch down. There's something else there, too. An owner's manual. Shoving it aside he pulls out two glasses, and pours. "You've got two days, Hunt. They want you out of here by the end of the week."

Gene Hunt sat in a broken office in a kingdom that was no longer his, and for a moment, just a moment he considered it. He watches Lambert leave, quietly seething.

Gene Hunt did not do helpless. Gene Hunt did not quit.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is very much appreciated! I love hearing your thoughts and criticisms, they keep me motivated to keep going!


End file.
